I emerge from my front door onto the main street of Chittlehampton. The village’s main artery is, in reality, a narrow country lane, with barely room for family hatchbacks to pass each other. The road is bordered either side by traditional thatched cottages, like something out of a Hovis advert, thankfully without the steep hill. The evening calm is broken only by the frantic barking of my neighbour’s Jack Russell.
An early autumn chill blows across my face, heralding the slide towards winter. From standing outside one cottage at the western edge of the village, a steady stream of grey smoke rises from its stumpy chimney. I catch the sweet, earthy scent of burning oak.
Observing the cottage next door, a synthetic flicker shines from a modern television, contrasting against its traditional cob wall exterior. The silhouettes of the residents are huddled around the screen, like a twenty-first-century fireplace.
Behind these quaint cottages stands the floodlit church tower, its eight crown-like pinnacles lighting the cloudy sky like a fire beacon.
From a distant field comes the chug of a tractor, breaking the quiet of the night. With a sudden gust of wind, the raw, pungent smell of fresh manure being worked into the ground catches the back of my throat.
I walk eastwards. A waxing gibbous moon struggles through a misty shroud, casting its light onto the village hall. Its corrugated metal roof looks harsh and cold against the renovated red wooden slats that wrap the exterior. I walk on, relieved to leave the cold shimmer of the hall behind.
The main street narrows further in the middle of the village, with its subtle streetlights adding a warm glow along the lane. I stop to browse at the windows of the village shop with fresh produce on show. The left window displays coils of sausages, doorstop rashers of bacon and joints of topside beef, resting on a carving tray. From the other window, I see an array of greens, oranges and reds from the fresh fruit and vegetables. Mini towers of Braeburn apples, Seville oranges and Maris Piper potatoes still dusted with Devon soil. Behind the display, the shop itself is dark and still.
The lane opens up into the main village square, still with its original cobble surface. The church is now in full view at one corner, with its perpendicular gothic windows and old stone walls starkly illuminated against the night sky. In the centre of the square sits the moss-covered and now disused water pump, its cast iron handle retains traces of black paint.
From the opposite side of the square, a jovial hum of conversation spills from a large house, lit up in royal blue. Cutting through the commotion, I hear a familiar voice of my friend calling out from the doorway. “Guinness?”
“Yes please,” I shout back gratefully. As the church bell chimes eight, I hurry across the square, over the slippery cobbles, into my local pub. A wave of heat warms my nose, carrying the smell of hoppy ale and scampi fries. Squeezing past a crowd of villagers, I spot my friend holding fort at the bar, two drinks waiting. I shake his hand and take a sip.
